


Hello, Cruel World

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire, Becky, and Lisa walk into a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Cruel World

**Claire**

The third time her father disappeared, it wasn’t really her father. But she knew he was there, somewhere, deep inside whatever person used his voice to bless the poor, used his hand to smite the hypocrites, used his body to do anything but walk on water.

On the television, day after day—and then, nothing. Nothing but radio silence and Claire had read the apocalypse books, the civilizations beyond the edge of the world.

Radio silence was always the end. The period of the last sentence.

Two years without her father’s face. Three months with just his mask. And then one day, just now, during the morning news, nothing. “We have to find out what’s happened,” Claire said, poking at her eggs with a fork.

“We already know what happened that—day.” Amelia blinked her eyes, blinked the black smoke away, blinked the blood away, blinked Jimmy Novak away.

“No we don’t,” Claire said.

Amelia cradled her forehead in her fist. “It hasn’t even been a day, Claire.”

Claire knew what Amelia wanted. Eat her breakfast, go to school, grow up big and strong even though she already grew up. “We know that there are people we can ask—you know there are.” She decided not to tell Amelia that she should have said this a long time ago. Should have ran after him on that porch, tug his trench coat. Should have stopped Castiel from pouring back into him. Shouldn’t have hidden in her mother’s embrace, shaking and shivering and empty, so empty, insides collapsing in on each other like dominoes. She should have been stronger that day, to say yes to an angel, then to tell that same angel no, to tell her father no—not this time, not again.

Amelia shook her head. “We’re done and we’re out. I just want to keep you safe, Claire. Those boys, wherever they are—”

“—I gotta go to school,” Claire said, thumping her fork down. She put her left over eggs into a tupperware, put it in the fridge, cleaned both their plates.

“See you at five?” Amelia called, just before Claire opened the door.

Claire pretended not to hear. Amelia asked the same question, every time. But Claire couldn’t bear to say she’d be there when she wouldn’t be. And she couldn’t tell Amelia the truth because Amelia would stop her, and Claire was determined not to be stopped.

She had clothes and food in her backpack. The books were the  _Supernatural_  books by Carver Edlund. They sounded familiar to her, like she had remembered them once even though she’d never read them before, and when she saw details between the lines—how bones creaked and muscles seized standing in a grave dug under cover of midnight, air ghosted with frost and dirt and a strong desire for the magic fingers—they tasted the same when fragments of language that wasn’t from earth popped into her head, the same way that, if she wasn’t careful, she comprehended how small she was, the pores in her skin achingly huge, the strands of molecules stringing her together, when her body was nothing but planets of water and air and blood spiderwebbed across a universe of space, orbiting the sun of her soul, that she was both large and tiny at the same time, but never big enough for an angel, but always just right—and then she’d have to remember herself, and everything shifted into place again, and she was just Claire Novak again, forehead pressed hard against the glass window of a bus.

She was going to the publishing address stamped on the  _Supernatural_  books. If Carver Edlund knew all these things, then he would know where to find him.

 ** Becky **

It had been a year, and she still didn’t know where Chuck had gone off to. Sure she had put out a missing person’s report even though Chuck left all his scribbled up pages, all his alcohol, all the pills he took to kill the migraines that never worked—but Becky still didn’t know what happened, and frankly, she didn’t know she could live with the feeling that the story was still happening even though nobody was writing it down, even though nobody would even know it was happening, would never remember it had ever happened—but there she was every morning, shoving the blankets off her chest, kicking her feet from under the sheets, and staring at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth.

After work, which still existed because the whole apocalypse thing had never come to pass (for which Becky was very grateful), Becky would put on some ramen, let it boil (sometimes she forgot about it and it burned and she’d have to start over again after she dragged a chair under the smoke alarm and turned it off), and edit Chuck’s work into something that vaguely resembled a cohesive and comprehensive story.

Finally, after years and years of graduating, she was using her degree to do what she had always wanted to do. And Chuck wasn’t there to see it. Nobody was there to see it.

That night, carpet dug into the her knees, itchy and coarse and old. It was so thin, she could feel the wood—hard and biting and cold—against her skin. Her joints ached crouching there so long, staring at the papers fanned around her. The last of Chuck’s work that she had boxed and packaged and dragged to her little apartment up the stairs so that when whoever came looking for Chuck, wondering why he wasn’t paying his rent (again), they wouldn’t find this piece of him, this part of him that he had shrugged behind.

It wasn’t that Becky jumped when someone knocked on the door or that she maybe even shrieked a little, to have something small and hard like an unexpected sound jerk her back from an imaginary world that was actually real but might as well be imaginary since it was so far beyond her reach, Becky Rosen, nose pressed tight against the glass, fogging it up with all her useless little words, only to have it vanish, and the other world stared back at her with the big blue eyes and the blond hair of a girl named Claire, except she couldn’t be, because she clutched in her hands, a copy of the last printed _Supernatural_  book and it twisted something in her gut to see that, to see the story end there after everything, even though the part never written down properly stood unblinking on her doorstep. But no, it couldn’t be—she was seeing things, taking things too seriously again.

“Becky?” the girl said. “Becky Rosen?”

“Yeah huh,” Becky said, forcing herself to look into the girl’s eyes. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Claire Novak—”

—and Becky’s stomach free-fell into gravity, and it was too hard to breathe, even though she plucked at the too-loose collar of her shirt—

“—I’m looking for Carver Edlund, but the people said to talk to you.”

Becky swallowed down hard on the name Claire Novak because Claire couldn’t be here, shouldn’t be here, characters weren’t just allowed to waltz into a person’s life, roughen up the living room floor by showing that all her life she’d been living in a dark stable, and there was a great, grand world out there, only to slam it shut in her face.

Claire dipped closer towards Becky, frowning a little. “They said that you were his emergency contact.”

“I was Chuck’s emergency contact?” Becky said, blinking back the pressure that insisted on building up in her eyes.

“Chuck’s his name? His real name?” Claire said, slipping inside even though Becky hadn’t said anything remotely like it was okay to come in.

“The prophet Chuck,” Becky said. “Don’t step on the papers.”

Claire stepped around them, balancing neatly on the balls of her feet. Her legs were delicate and long, like fawn limbs, picking their way through the grass, avoiding the pebbles, looking for rivers to quench its thirst.

“I’m looking for my father,” Claire said. Without looking at Becky she held out the _Supernatural_  book. I think the Dean and Sam in these books are the same boys who took him away from me. Well, not that they took him took him—but they certainly didn’t help.”

The smile Claire gave Becky stretched her face wrong—too stiff, too cold, too old. Becky shivered. “Your father’s not here. I’d know it if a strange man came into my bedroom.”

Claire frowned at the words, her fingers curling against the paperbacked book, dimpling the pages, creasing the muscular, half-naked men that adorned the cover. Then Claire bent down, not quite crouching, pulling a paper from a pile with her finger and thumb. It was a sketch because sometimes when his head had hurt too much for words, Chuck had drawn illustrations, and he had labeled that one  _Castiel, Angel of the Lord_ .

“Look,” Claire said softly, her voice hard, “there he is. But his name isn’t Castiel. It’s Jimmy. Jimmy Novak.”

Becky’s lips twitched, and she swore she’d never mention seeing him on the news, not to Claire, not to anyone. So she said nothing.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Becky said. “I don’t know anything. Chuck isn’t here. There is no more hotline to the future. No 1-800 prophet. I guess they’re no longer in demand when Team Free Will rips up the playbook.”

“I don’t believe you,” Claire said, folding up the sketch and tucking it into her jacket.

Becky shrugged, and tugged a box open. She hadn’t gotten around to looking over these, but she figured Claire wouldn’t mind shitty writing if she saw it. “The last pages Chuck ever wrote,” she said, handing them to Claire.

Claire read quickly, her eyes skimming across the page, darting up and down, mouth frowning. Without looking, she said, “He blew my father up? With a snap of his fingers?” And the page again, wrinkling, clutched in her finger nails, white with pressure.

“Chuck’s never lied before,” Becky said.

“Does that mean my father’s dead?”

Becky lifted her shoulders, shook her head. God didn’t seem to care who it was filled out his plans. Who cared about a vessel when it was the angel making the shots?

Claire frowned at the last page, flipped it over just in case something had been scrawled on the back. There wasn’t. Just a blank whiteness. “Who’s Lisa, and where does she live?”

Becky ran her hand through her hair. “I have no idea. But let’s find out.”

 ** Lisa **

Lisa was making eggs, scrambled eggs, like she always did. She held the salt loosely in her hand, watching it stream into the eggs until there was a small mountain of salt, watching it stream and pour, a steady line, a white river—

“Mom?”

She dropped the salt. It went into the eggs and made a mess of everything, splashing raw egg onto the stove, onto her clothes, splattering on the countertops, the floor. “What?”

Ben looked at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open. “I don’t remember what I was gong to say,” he muttered, shuffling off to the dining room, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the smooth surface of the table. He was wearing a salvage auto shop t-shirt that she didn’t recognize.

“Breakfast is going to be late, sweetie,” Lisa said, cleaning up the mess. “The eggs—”

“—I don’t want eggs.”

“You always want eggs,” Lisa said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t you?”

Ben was silent. Then, “Cereal sounds good.”

Lisa tugged her hair, as if the pressure on the base of her scalp would anchor her to earth, to this house, to the kitchen, to the cold seeping in through her worn cotton ankle socks so that she wouldn’t forget to stop pouring salt onto the eggs. “Okay. Cereal it is then.”

As Lisa opened the fridge, she glanced at the window, at the line of salt still sitting there. Tension eased from her shoulders, and her heart didn’t feel wound quite so tight—but there was salt on the windows and why wasn’t she saying  _what the fuck_  or  _Ben, why did you put salt on the windows_ unless maybe she put the salt there, but why would she put salt on the windows instead of scrambled eggs and her lungs stopped working, got hard to breathe, floated away from—

“—the cold air out, Mom.”

“What?” the word came with too much air, barely holding itself together, because she had been holding her breath and that was why everything was slipping away.

Ben gestured at her hand on the fridge door, other hand on the milk handle. “You’re letting all the cold air out.”

She watched Ben eat his breakfast. When he was almost done, she said, “Did you put salt on the windows? I’m not mad, if you did. I just—I need to know.”

Ben looked into his bowl like it was the one that had asked the questions and not her. “I thought you did that,” he said. “It was on my windows when I woke up this morning. Or maybe it was there last night.”

Lisa shook her head.

Someone knocked and the door, and they both jerked, staring at each other. They piled from their chairs and, for some reason, Ben said, “The salt—” before clapping his hand over his mouth, abashed, but Lisa didn’t have time to notice, not when she found herself kicking back the rug with her foot, while she slammed her eye against the peep-hole. She glanced down and saw that there was a red mark sprawled under the rug, and she didn’t understand why that was there or why she had kicked back the rug—to what, check for it—but she hadn’t even known it was there—but she smoothed the rug back over, studied the people through the peep hole again. One was just a girl, just a teenager, a little older than Ben probably—at least her eyes were old, too too old for a child’s face—and then a woman with knee high stockings and a sweater vest.

“What can I do for you?” Lisa said, trying to forget the red mark on the floor. Ben moved in beside.

“I’m looking for this man,” the girl said, unfolding a sketch.

“Wasn’t he on the television?” Ben said.

The girl’s face stiffened, her lips flicking as if they wanted to speak but she wouldn’t let them, not yet. “That wasn’t him,” she said.

The woman nudged the girl with her elbow. “I’m Becky. This is Claire. We thought you might know where—Jimmy—is because he’s friends with Dean. You know Dean,” she said, laughing—a tightly coiled burst of noise that burst through unsmiling lips.

Lisa’s stomach slipped a little bit. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice more air than sound, like it only got when she lied, “I don’t know a Dean,” but she wasn’t lying because she didn’t know any Deans, not a single one. She looked down at Ben. “Do you know a Dean?” and why the fuck was her voice breaking?

Ben met her eyes, shifting on his feet. His mouth opened, the closed. Opened, closed like a puppet with a broken string.

“You don’t know Dean Winchester?” Becky said slowly, drawing a couple of polaroids from her purse. Lisa blinked at them, touched the pale freckled face of the man inside, nudged the corners of his green eyes. She clutched the picture, it bent beneath the pressure of her fingernails.

“Why are you crying?” Claire asked.

“I’m not crying,” Lisa said. “I’m not.” She rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes and it came back wet. “It’s just allergies.”

Becky pointed at Ben. “What does your shirt say?”

“Singer Salvage Yard,” Claire read out loud. She frowned at Becky.

Becky slid a glance at Claire, nodding wisely, as if she knew a secret. “Does it have an address?”

Ben turned around, and Becky scribbled whatever was written there on a notepad. “Sorry to have bothered you,” Becky said. “I really hope you have a good day.”

Lisa recognized that tone. It was the same tone she used with Ben when he had been hurt, when his soul had been crushed, and she had told him that everything was going to be okay. She just wish she could remember what had sparked it. Some crush, perhaps.

“Wait,” Ben said, just before they turned away.

They paused, waiting.

“Who is he,” Ben said, gesturing at the folded slip of paper.

“He’s my father,” Claire said.

Lisa looked from Ben to Claire—their eyes were the same, even though his were brown and hers was blue.

“He’s gone?” Ben said.

Claire glanced down at the sketch. “Someone took him.” Then she looked up at Ben. “What about yours?”

Ben’s throat worked up and down, and Lisa didn’t understand why—they already talked about his father, his biological father, that issue had been resolved since he was a kid, so why was nausea roiling her stomach.

“I don’t know,” Ben said, his voice breaking and he would have been embarrassed but not this time. “Maybe he was never mine.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Claire said, turning away, not even waiting for Becky, who still stood on the porch, slack-jawed, eyes wide and blinking.

“You really don’t know a Dean Winchester?” Becky asked.

Lisa shook her head. “I really—I really think you should go now.”

And then, muttering apologies, Becky left, casting backward, over-the-shoulder looks at them both.

Ben and Lisa watched them disappear around the corner until Lisa closed the door and kicked the rug back again so that Ben could see. “We’ve got graffiti on the floor.”

 ** Becky and Claire **

Becky drove while Claire read the loose leafed bundle of prophecies that Becky was turning into a book. She flipped on the radio. Claire flicked it back off. When she wasn’t reading, she leaned against the window, forehead snug against the glass, misting it with her breath.

She never closed her eyes and she never slept.

Becky wished she was old enough to drive because she could hardly keep her eyes open.

 ** Claire **

Becky came with her to the door, but when Claire saw the sleek shadow of the black car that had taken her father away from her, when she was sleeping, she put her hand on Becky’s arm, finger over her lips, while she gestured towards the impala, towards the figure sitting on its hood, drinking a beer.

Becky understood. Didn’t even try to fight with her when she picked her way through the blackness to the car.

As Claire edged closer, she noticed that Dean stiffened—and she would recognize Dean, she wouldn’t forget anybody that day—that he knew she was coming, but that he didn’t say anything. There was something in his lap, something fisted in his other hand.

Her father’s coat.

The tan stretch of it was blotted with dark, ugly blood.

Claire’s throat swelled so big, she wondered it just didn’t splinter right apart so that everybody could hear.

Dean didn’t acknowledge her until she was right up to him, until she could reach out and touch his folded knee if she wanted.

The belt from her father’s coat dangled beside his legs, looped around his ankles.

He looked up at her briefly, then back down at the coat.

She didn’t think he recognized her. It’s okay. She probably wouldn’t recognize her either. Not after everything. “Whose is that?” She pointed at the trench coat.

Dean licked his lips. “A friend’s.” Then he looked at her again. “But you knew that. Claire. Right?”

Her face welled up—pressure on her sinuses, putting so much pressure on everything that everything was going to crack, going to flow, and she wouldn’t have that, she wouldn’t. She heaved in a breath. It shuddered in her throat, and her throat was dry, tongue swollen.

“It’s my father’s.”

He clutched the coat tighter.

“It should be mine.” Claire hated that her voice cracked.

Dean didn’t meet her face.

She didn’t want to see the sadness sitting there anyway, so she reached out for the coat, slid her hand into a crooked, empty pocket, and gripped the lining there. 


End file.
